


Entrapment

by tepidspongebath



Series: Christmas Fics [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Gen, Humor, In the spirit of I'll-show-you-how-it's-done, Kissing, Mistletoe, things that happen at office parties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 14:39:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9128077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tepidspongebath/pseuds/tepidspongebath
Summary: The inadvisability of talking shop at office parties; peer pressure is a terrible thing; and proper kissing according to Greg Lestrade.Written for the Seasonal Fucking Cheer Ficathon promptMistletoe; or why kissing under a parasitic plant is a terrible idea.





	

“How do you do it?” Dimmock took a sip of his drink and went on, “I mean, really, how _do_ you do it?”

“Well,” said Lestrade, thoughtfully turning his own cup of passable office punch in his hands, “generally speaking, I don’t.”

“But _how_?”

“The thing is, there’s always something else - solid physical evidence, reliable witnesses who just didn’t realize what they saw at the time, that sort of thing. See, what Sherlock does is amazing, but it’s not magic. There’s always an explanation, and he’ll usually give it to you whether you want it or not. You’ve got to remember he hates being a witness as much as the crown prosecutors hate having to call on him to testify.” Lestrade winced at some particularly horrible courtroom memory. “Besides, the cases he solves are solved very definitely, you know? There’s a confession, they plead guilty, it’s all very tidy.”

“Ah,” said Dimmock. “But this suspect’s still saying he didn’t do it and that he tried to crush Sherlock Holmes in a garbage compactor in self defense.”

Lestrade snorted into his drink. “Takes all sorts to make a world, doesn’t it? Anyway, I assume John was there since Sherlock _wasn’t_ crushed in a compactor? You could use him instead.”

The two men were silent as they contemplated he prospect of John Watson in court. Yes, Sherlock Holmes was Hell’s own witness, capable of offending half the jury and being held in contempt in less than five minutes on the stand, but John was _worse_. Oh, he’d answer questions clearly and civilly enough, but he would also press his lips together in a tight thin line and give the distinct impression that he was inches away from clambering over the rails and giving the suspect and their lawyer a sound thrashing. It didn’t help that he looked like he could do it too - there was a soldier underneath those woolly jumpers after all - and God help them if Sherlock had gotten so much as a paper cut in the course of the investigation.

“I don’t think so,” said Dimmock.

“Nope,” agreed Lestrade.

“Sherlock it is, then.”

“Good luck with that, mate.”

“Oh, just look at you two.” That was D.I. Hopkins. She was standing a few feet away and looking far too amused for a woman wearing festive antlers for comfort. “Aren’t you getting cozy.”

“Excuse me?” said Dimmock sharply.

“Yeah,” grinned Donovan, appearing at Hopkins’ elbow. “Very cozy.”

Lestrade sighed resignedly. This was exactly the sort of thing you expected at office Christmas parties when people started developing a sense of humor. “Okay, what’s going on?”

Donovan merely pointed at the mistletoe hanging above their heads. She had spent several creative minutes up a stepladder, and was very proud of herself.

“What’s that even doing there?” Dimmock demanded, all but stamping his foot. He had reason to be petulant: one simply did not expect mistletoe in the cramped space behind the desks and between filing cabinets. It was practically entrapment.

“To catch people doing dark deeds in dark corners, that’s what,” said Donovan.

“Dark deeds? What dark deeds? There are no dark deeds! I was just asking for help with a case--”

“During our Christmas party?” Donovan raised her eyebrows at him. “That definitely counts as dark.”

“Most certainly dark.” Hopkins smiled the smile of a woman about to whip out a phone and take _the_ most embarrassing video without fear of retribution. Equal rank was a beautiful thing. “Go on, then.”

By now, the rest of New Scotland Yard had noticed what was going on, and it was becoming increasingly obvious that there was going to be no escape. Surrounded and quite literally backed into a corner, it was the sort of situation where, in the field, you started to play along to buy yourself time and hoped like hell that backup would arrive fucking _soon_. Except it _was_ backup crowded around them, phones out with a chant of _Kiss, kiss!_ steadily gaining momentum. Dimmock didn’t know if he’d be able to trust any of them again.

And because there was no way to get out of it short of throwing an even more embarrassing temper tantrum, he ducked forward and gave Lestrade a quick peck on the cheek - specifically the one that was facing away from their considerable audience. This did not get the reaction he was hoping for.

“That’s not a kiss,” scoffed Hopkins from behind her still-upraised phone.

“Not a proper one,” agreed Anderson. He’d gotten his job back, but he still hadn’t gotten rid of that awful beard.

Lestrade glowered at them. He was, by and large, a patient man, having had a lot of practice with the world’s only consulting detective and his own immediate superior _and_ balancing the two of them, but this was really a bit much. Not even a boatload of bad punch could justify it.

“So you want to see a proper kiss, then?” he demanded in the same tone that a gladiator might have used to ask spectators at the Coliseum if they’d like to see blood. “Right. _Right_.” He drained his drink, set the empty cup carefully on a desk, and turned to Dimmock. “I’ll have you know I’m madly in love with Molly Hooper.”

“You mean _Doctor_ Hooper? The pathologist? What’s that got to do with anyth--”

The rest of Dimmock’s question was lost as Lestrade seized him by the lapels and kissed him soundly on the mouth. Dimmock dropped his punch.

The room watched in stunned silence, which was only broken by the occasional sound of phones snapping photos, a helpless sort of gurgle from Dimmock, and the soft, wet sounds of the kiss itself. It went on for what felt like a small eternity, and there was a collective gasp when Lestrade finally let him go.

Dimmock staggered backwards until his back hit the filing cabinet behind him, and he promptly sagged as though his knees had stopped working.

“Oh God,” he whimpered, absently pushing a hand through his short hair. “Oh _God_.”

Lestrade nodded in professional satisfaction. “Now, if you lot are satisfied,” he said, drawing himself up ever so slightly, “I have a confession of undying love to make. Or at least I’ll ask her out for coffee. Excuse me.”

The crowd parted like the Red Sea to let him pass (he was already punching in the numbers on his mobile), and closed again behind him as Hopkins and Donovan helped Dimmock to his feet.

“There was tongue, wasn’t there?” said Donovan.

“It looked like it.” Hopkins, one-handed, was replaying the video on her phone.

“Yes. Lots.” Dimmock covered his face with the hand that wasn’t gripping Hopkins’ shoulder for support. “Oh. My. _God_. I thought I was straight, you know.”

“That good, huh?”

Donovan leaned over the stricken Dimmock to see. “Think he’d do that for charity? Or should I just put up more mistletoe next year?”

“No, don’t,” pleaded Dimmock, shakily reaching for the new cup of punch Anderson was offering him. “I won’t go if you do. I don’t think I’d survive another one of those. Oh _God_.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> *screams into the void* It's Christmas till Epiphany!!! And I hope everyone had a good holiday!
> 
> Also, I ship Lestrade and Molly very, _very_ hard.


End file.
